


Verboten

by DauntlessSubconscious



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Detective!Rey, F/M, Glove Kink, Hitman!Kylo, Lies By Omission, Reylo - Freeform, Shameless Smut, interrogation at gunpoint, there's plot if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-23
Updated: 2017-10-23
Packaged: 2019-01-21 17:44:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12462711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DauntlessSubconscious/pseuds/DauntlessSubconscious
Summary: Ben Solo has a quiet side, all soft caresses and languid kisses. He also has a passionate one that threatens to rip the seams of his mind and soul, one that consumes, takes and promises to drag her down with him. Rey knows about his duality, welcomes his complexities.Then, a photo is pushed into her hands and she meets Kylo Ren.





	Verboten

**Author's Note:**

> This has been in my WIP's folder since ever, it was time to set it free. It was meant to be part of the Reylo Sin Anthology, but I never got the chance to finish it then because life happens; I'm glad it's done now.
> 
> It's un-beta'd, so all mistakes and typos are entirely my fault. Enjoy!

She sits and waits. He will come sooner or later. She can be patient.

 

She pays no mind to the water drops leaking from her hair to her shoulders, painting tortuous streams down her arms and chest; an echo for the slithery shadows the street lights and the rain hitting the glass draw on the wall.

 

Her cigarette is consuming itself on the ashtray. She doesn’t care. She prefers to check the clip of her nine millimeter. With a dry push, she returns the clip where it belongs, cocks a bullet into the chamber and rests the gun over her thigh, her eyes never leaving the front door.

 

She can wait. She knows all about waiting.

 

_“Kenobi, get in here.”_

 

_The storm, apparently, not only rages outside. Chief Skywalker’s eyes, devoid of their usual calm, stare at her from across the office; a perfect match for the strain in his voice when he calls her name. She exchanges a quick look with Finn and Poe while rising from her seat, but the reassuring smile she tries to stick on her lips falls short. Still, as she walks, her footsteps don’t falter, her chin is held high; never mind the stares she feels on the back of her neck nor the uneasiness creeping up and down her spine._

 

_Rey shuts the door and takes a seat without a word, not daring to speak. She can’t recall a single case in the two years she has worked under Luke Skywalker that had put him in this state of disarray. His gaze is wild, the lines in his face reveal the apprehension she thinks he’s not even trying to hide anymore. Skywalker starts to open folders and sprays them over his desk; various cases, she knows. The pictures are gruesome; absent-staring eyes, limbs in strange angles stiffened in rigor mortis, the occasional bruise and of course, blood... but the job has desensitized her, so she spares them not more than a glance._

 

_“What do you know about the Ren case?”_

 

_She shrugs. “The common knowledge, I suppose. It’s not my case.”_

 

_Skywalker nods and extracts a black leather notepad from under the files. She’s not only not surprised, but also she can feel the corners of her mouth tugging up despite the strained atmosphere in the office. Luke is first and foremost, an old cop._

 

_“76 East 21st Street, Brooklyn,” he reads and looks back at her, almost as if he’s searching for something._

 

_Rey frowns. “What does my address has to do with—”_

 

_Skywalker answers her unfinished question when he hands her a nondescript manila envelope. It sits heavy in her hand, but she doesn’t hesitate and frees its content. More photos, but this time it isn’t some anonymous body awaiting on the glossy paper; this time, the characteristic brick facades of the buildings in her neighborhood stare back at her blank face. The pictures are a bit blurry, not entirely clear since daylight had been scarce by the time they were taken. In the succession of images, a tall man is shown crossing the street and approaching to her apartment building. He keeps his hands in his pockets and the lapels of his coat are held up, shrouding his features in mystery._

 

_It takes her no short amount of effort to keep her eyes from widening when the realization hits; her mind is quick enough to see where is this going._

 

_Skywalker provides another picture. In this one, the face of the objective is more recognizable yet the quality of it is not reliable enough to get an positive ID. The surroundings aren’t familiar, but his dark hair… She has held those tresses in her hands while his head was buried deep between her legs more times than she can count._

 

_Her hands start shaking and she presses the offending limbs against her lap while Luke speaks._

 

_“Kylo Ren is the suspect of a dozen murder cases, at least. We have no direct evidence to link him to these assassinations and that’s why he’s still on the loose. We do know he doesn’t kill on a whim. His victims are carefully chosen, but he doesn’t fit the profile of a serial killer…” Luke inhales deeply as his eyes bear into hers. “He’s a hitman, Rey. It’s his job. Evidence suggests he has allegiances within the First Order.”_

 

_Her eyebrows shoot up. “Snoke’s mafia?”_

 

_Luke nods. “Rey, I need to ask… What is your involvement with him?”_

 

 _Her eyes stare into the baby-blues in front of her and she knows right away she has no good answer for this question._ He told me his name was Ben _, is all she can think; her mind repeats the sentence like a mantra, caught in a loop of denial._

 

_Before her consciousness can make a solid choice, the words slip out and the cold calm she uses to lie frightens her. “I never saw him, not in my building nor the neighborhood.”_

 

_Skywalker lowers his head and sighs and just when she thinks she’s neck deep in shit for her dishonesty, the man gives her the most paternal and worried look she has ever seen. “I’ll assign a surveillance team to your building,” he says, the concern patent in his voice. “I—I know this man, Rey. If you cross paths with him, don’t be a hero. Call reinforcements right away.”_

 

_“Of course, sir.”_

 

_Rey doesn’t know which is worse, if the revolting guilt that has already began to spread through her, or knowing that the relieved expression on Luke Skywalker’s face is based on betrayal._

 

_“Alright, Kenobi. Go home.”_

 

_She barely registers her friends asking if she’s okay, nor the heavy rain that soaks her after a meagre block on foot. All she cares about is Ben Solo—no, Kylo Ren, she corrects herself—and how he has forged the habit of showing up at her doorstep most Mondays and Thursday nights, wasting no time to reduce her into a quivering mess as she shatters around his tongue or cock._

 

_The calendar confirms it when she gets home, today is Thursday._

 

Her eyes dart into attention when she hears footsteps in the hallway, and while she consciously keeps her index finger away from the trigger, she can’t help to grip the handle with more strength than necessary.

 

She now knows why she lied to her superior officer. Listening to the sound of the key she gave him because of his weird schedules turning in the lock, she understands. _This is personal_ , an inner, damaged voice claims; this is between both of them. She was the one whom he tricked, whom he showed a fabricated persona and mislead her into the belief she meant something. She and she alone will set the score right.

 

Once she’s standing, she raises the gun. Her posture is nearly perfect, feet spread, dominant shoulder slightly behind the other one while both hands hold the Glock. She’s ready to take her shot.

 

It’s his eyes, probably; or perhaps the way his lips part in mild surprise what makes her hesitate. _Wait_ , something whispers in her head and she obeys in defiance of her better judgement. She should have known that this situation was of the “take it or leave it” kind; that the moment won’t wait for her resolve to show up, but she deludes herself with the notion that she can end this at any time. She still holds the gun, after all.

 

He frowns, and the genuine confusion only deepens the turmoil in her. “Rey, what—”

 

“Hello, Ben,” she says, her voice sweet as honey, her face nothing but. By now, drawing a breath needs to be a conscious motion, she can’t allow her body to betray her. She sees his hands slowly raising and this scene is so twisted that if she could, she would laugh right this instant. “Or maybe you prefer Kylo now.”

 

His face morphs, the bewilderment in it disappears and his gloved hands descend, hanging limp by his side.

 

“Am I one of your marks?”

 

The question make his features harden. “No.”

 

“Then why are you here?”

 

“You know why I’m here.”

 

He takes a tentative pace towards her, but her sharp inhale and her finger locking on the trigger make him stop.

 

“Don’t lie to me.”

 

She’s losing patience, real fast. This is already far from her original plan as it is—if instinctively wanting to put a bullet in him can be considered as such.

 

_No, focus._

 

The thing is that in the few seconds she uses to put herself back together, he reacts. In a swift motion, he takes the gun from her and disassembles it. The pieces of the Glock fall onto the carpet with a muted thump and their height difference becomes obvious as he looms over her, catching her arms. Rey’s back hits the wall; the leather of his gloves creaks under the tight grip, his hips pinning her own in a quick and altogether too familiar move.

 

“Why me?” She asks, and despite feeling the moisture in her eyes, the tears never fall. “You needed intel? Someone in the inside who was stupid in enough to fall for…this?”

 

He stares at her, his eyes pleading and she’s tempted to laugh again; he’s delusional if he thinks he deserves any consideration from her.

 

“Answer me!”

 

He keeps his hands around her wrists, the pressure bruising. A myriad of emotions fly over his angular face. He's an odd, attractive set of features that never fail to give away too much. Even now, while she can feel his pulse racing and the tension thrumming like a live wire, his clenched jaw softens in contrast to the curves of his full lips and the ever-present hint of anguish in his eyes.

 

“You want the truth?” He leans in, his breath grazing her ear and the low cadence of his voice hits the target right between her legs. “Because I fucking love being inside you, the way you moan my name like I’m giving you the heavens, and I would…I would tear the world apart for you.”

 

She huffs a humorless laugh that also serves to mask a shaky breath. Rey doesn’t know if the hoarseness in his throat it’s due to desire or sorrow; maybe a twisted combination of both… All she knows is that her torso strains to touch his, because while her mind reels in the knowledge of who this man really is, her body remembers and craves what he can do.

 

“I don’t even know who you are.”

 

“Yes, you do.” The vicious grip around her wrists loosens and he brings his large hand to cup her face, his fingers burying in her hair. “I never lied to you.”

 

“You weren’t honest either.”

 

She fights back because it’s part of who she is, because her ideals are screaming for her to do the right thing, to move away and hand him over to the authorities; because getting in too deep could make it all crumble.

 

“Would you have wanted me to be?” The question comes as a soft, innocent murmur, but his eyes are relentless and by the life of her, she cannot look away. “Would you still want me if I had?”

 

The first answer that comes to her mind is _yes_ ; but hypocrisy is unbecoming, especially if it’s protecting the pride she takes on her morals. In all honesty, she doesn’t know and in their current position, using the rational part of her brain comes as a challenge.

 

“This changes things,” she says instead.

 

His hand moves and the smooth sensation of the leather against her jaw makes her shudder, like she’s done many times before. Not in fear, though—never in fear, she realizes.

 

His fingers entangle in her hair and undo the remains of her bun with a devotion she doesn’t know how to brave. He unravels her with every caress, with every look through his lashes and she loses her footing like an inexperienced tightrope walker.

 

“No, it doesn’t. You’re still afraid…of asking—taking what you want.” His fingers linger, but he moves back ever so slightly, his gaze lowering to her mouth for an instant when he sees her biting her lower lip. “What do you want, Rey?”

 

The answer is simple, primitive. She wants him, she always has.

 

She’s the one who kisses him, but he wastes no time and gives in return as much as he’s getting.

 

Rey’s hands sink in his hair and he moans against her mouth, closing the little space between them. The heat of the contact has her reeling; she wants both to protest and encourage the sinuous movements of his hands, until the latter prevails. Her spine arches, pressing her torso to his in search of the familiar warmth, the one she has learned to covet and his mouth—his sweet, talented mouth travels the lengths of her neck. Rey gasps as the last wisps of logic abandon her. Her hands can’t remain idle; they find the buttons of his heavy wool coat and shirt, undoing them with impressive speed to unearth the broad planes of his chest.

 

She won’t say it, but she’s missed him, missed this and yet, he doesn’t look like he needs any confirmation on that, for a slow grin spreads under his hooded eyes, turning his expression into pure satisfaction.

 

His smug side has a contradictory effect in her; he’s at his most handsome when he smirks, but at the same time that aura of overconfidence infuriates her to no end. They have always played a challenge and yield game, taunting and taking and inciting; always searching for an edge, an advantage to elicit a response in the other; a pattern they both learnt to relish and dread.

 

Rey plants her palms over his chest and pushes hard. He’s huge compared to her, but as the movement takes him by surprise, he staggers back until his knees hit the couch and he all but falls on it. His eyes explore her approaching form without leaving a single part untouched by the desire she sees in them; the craving devoid of nuances and pretensions. She thinks she paints a similar image. 

 

There’s a beat, a moment of quietness when she finally reaches him and stands between his legs. He looks up and her fingers dive deep in his hair, lightly pulling the soft strands. He groans in pleasure and his forehead leans on her navel, mouthing the soft skin he knows lies beneath the silk of her blouse. She sighs, her imagination firing up, fueled by the contact and the knowledge of what those full lips are capable of.

 

His fingers sneak under her skirt; it’s barely the whisper of a caress, a slow, torturous ascent that he knows is driving her her to insanity. His mouth becomes insistent as her breathing loses its steady pace and it takes all her willpower not to scream in impatience. The cool, black leather covering his hands closes around the lace of her underwear and she feels him smirk under her belly button as the fabric easily tears under a sharp pull. The zipper on the side of her skirt undergoes the same fate and she wishes she could be at least mildly annoyed with him, but the anticipation his touch awakens is demanding enough to keep her attention on her lover.

 

The lighting of the room is poor, but when his face turns up it’s plain lust and need and _now, please_ ; so much so she can’t really think why is he holding back. The hunger she sees and the feather-like touch over her inner thighs clash in discordance, just like many other aspects of his personality do. He’s a conundrum, a beautiful mess and it scares her as much as it excites her, because despite all appearances, he always manages to be in control while she’s only relegated to feel and try not to lose herself in the maze that he is.

 

She’s vaguely aware of her shivering when his leather clad digits finally slide through her folds. She revels in the touch and gets closer to his mouth in a silent plea, but he’s not having any of it. His other hand closes around her hip to keep her still, sending a clear message: this will happen in his own terms, unless…

 

“Tell me what you want.”

 

Rey frowns; she never understood his need to hear her speak during their encounters, but if she were be able to put her mind into it at that moment, she would connect the dots. After all, listening to him losing all coherency, uttering curses and mumbled words during his climax does wonderful things for her.

 

“Ben…” She warns but he seems unfazed. He awaits completely still; he won’t move until he gets what he wants. That’s when she decides to turn the tables on him.

 

She steps back, instantly regretting the absence of his touch, but she pushes through the need of begging for release at his feet. If she’s meant to suffer, he will follow the same path.

 

She stares at him while shedding off the last of her clothing, trading her shame for a glimpse of desperation on his features, which she finds as her hands travel over her own skin, searching for the pleasure she so desires.

 

“You know what I want,” she says, two of her fingers burying in the depths of her cunt. “You can either watch or join me.”

 

He stares transfixed because she’s never done this before with him—she’s never done this with anyone, period. It has been a routine practised when she’s alone, sheltered from prying eyes, but he doesn’t know that and now is not the time to illuminate him.

 

Rey can’t—won’t wait for him to decide. She starts rubbing, finding all the wetness she needs within herself. Her lips part, letting out a ragged breath and she falls into the familiar rhythm that will lead her to completion; but before she finds that sweet moment, his hand still hers. He handles her with the ease of one who has found what makes her tick, one who knows the intricacies of her body and reactions—and he does, oh, how he does. With a few determined moves she’s arranged on his lap, her back against his chest with no possibility of escape. As it is, the thought of fighting back makes no appearance in her mind because there’s no comparison between his touch and her own; she much prefers his long, thick fingers pumping in and out, making her whimper and squirm until all she can process is her needy voice caressing his name in delirium.

 

His arms envelope her, his hands not nearly as soft as before. She awoke something in him, a wildness that sends shivers through her spine. His moments of abandon are seared in her brain; how his features morph into a freer, younger version of himself when he’s taken beyond the point of no return. It never fails to make her feel invincible and dauntless, the fact that she has been the catalyst of his undoing.

 

His tongue dances around the shell of her ear, the heat of his breath sending electric discharges down her spine and her hands push over his wanting more.

 

“Nice try, sweetheart,” he chuckles. His hand barely moves over her mound, he just keeps a steady pressure over it, and her impatience is strong enough to oversee the word of endearment. “But you know what I want and you will give it to me.”

 

“Really?”

 

She leans forward and grinds against him, pressing his erection viciously and providing with some of the friction she needs. She bites her lip when he groans, grinning in triumph when the dam of his self control breaks. His hands start moving, greedily consuming everything on their way. He spreads her and she hisses with the cool feel of the leather gloves sinking in her, the palm of his hand steadily pushing against her clit.

 

Her moans flood the dimly lit space, the air thick with the smell of her own arousal and she turns her head for a heady kiss.

 

“Tell me, Rey. Please, _please_ , tell me.”

 

He has never begged before. There had been times when she took the reins, but he has never lowered himself to a submissive position; and the agony, the ache in his voice pierce the haze of pleasure. The implicit power he’s giving her feels like venom in her bloodstream, intoxicating, dangerous—and she smiles because she gets it, because while he’s not made to relinquish control; something has changed tonight, something compels him to kneel before her and pray for an answer.

 

Her hand stops his and she turns on his lap. Her hips move over him on their own accord while she drinks in the sight of his disheveled hair, his parted lips and his blown pupils. She caresses his cheek and he closes his eyes, leaning on the touch like a child deprived of all contact and love, and she idly wonders if he will ever stop surprising her, because when his mouth finds her thumb and sucks it, all thoughts of innocence disappear. His tongue plays with the pad of the finger while her free hand travels downwards until it finds the bulge in his pants. His hips rise, their eyes connect and she smiles, finding the reason why she should indulge him.

 

“I want you...” she sneaks her hand inside his pants, circling his erection and pumping lightly, making him groan, “...inside of me.” His cock is free now, impossibly hard and leaking, just like she is. “So when I finally come,” she slides the head between her folds, making them both sigh in anticipation, “you will feel me clenching around you, keeping you there, where you belong.”

 

She drops her hips, sheathing him to the hilt, their moans stirring the heady air. His hands hold possessively to her ass and help her to find a slow rhythm that can’t possibly last for long, because everything between them is fire, passion and frenzy. They are avaricious creatures, selfishly coveting the other’s attention and thoughts; they love this destructive dance, the old adagio fueled by two souls consumed in the greed of their encounters, and yet, neither of them would have it any other way.

 

She rises and falls; her hands roam freely but, at his demand, her eyes never leave his. She’s so close she can taste it, the nirvana beyond that cusp she keeps climbing and climbing; she just needs that gentle push that will make her fall into oblivion.

 

“Not yet, love…not yet,” he whispers between pants, coaxing her into a slower rhythm. His mouth traps hers in a languid, deep kiss, all tongues and intensity and she moans into it; patience long lost to the urges of desire.

 

He lifts her up in a swift move, his forearms supporting her thighs, still buried in her. The next thing her addled mind registers is the cool feel of the sheets under her back as he puts some space between them, giving his hands free reign to roam her body at his leisure.

 

He stands and her throat does this pathetic noise of discontent that has him smirking in response, but before she can think of something coherent to say, she notices he’s getting rid of what’s left of his clothes.

 

She watches him with undisguised hunger. Not the kind of hunger she knew during her childhood, though the two share similarities. The difference is that this craving doesn’t go away after having him; on the contrary, she only wants more, and harder, and deeper than before because it’s never enough, not when it’s him.

 

She remembers the first time she saw him, a stranger in a bar where she didn’t want to be but had to anyways, because Jess was getting married and she was maid of honor. She remembers gazing at him by accident, while looking for a shadowed corner to escape the soon-no-longer bachelorette and her raucous entourage. His eyes were locked on her, like he had been watching her for a while and was only buying his time, measuring his steps before taking the leap. She remembers the thirst in that gaze, the heat of her cheeks and not being able to look away. His gait had been purposeful, regal as he crossed the room. She remembers the impact that hearing his voice had caused in her, deeming herself a lunatic for reacting in such a way to someone she had never seen before, but there it was, a reality beyond reasonable deniability. She remembers how he drove her mad with simmering touches and teases while in public, only to fuck her into oblivion against the wall of his apartment because making it to the bed had been a titanic task.

 

From the beginning it had been pure insanity and barely restrained passion. She had relished in each moment of it.

 

“Touch yourself.”

 

His command brings her back to her darkened room, to him standing in front of her, his hand tracing his cock in a lazy back and forth while his eyes consume the image she’s painting.

 

She obeys, but her rebellious part, that bit of her that enjoys fighting back just to see his eyes flare in challenge loosens her tongue. “I prefer your fingers.”

 

Her eyes detour to his hands and, oh yes, he’s still wearing his gloves. She moans.

 

“Do you?”

 

He’s pleased—she can tell—but doesn’t approach her. She nods, wanting the black leather of his gloves _on_ and _inside_ her more than anything in this world.

 

Her legs widen, offering him a full view of her fingers gliding through her folds; an invitation. A plea. The erratic rise and fall of her chest doesn’t hinder the defiant grin that appears on her face when her strokes turn more deliberate. Two fingers dive in and pick up speed, daring him into action.

 

Biting her lip is a futile attempt to control her whimpers, but being her stubborn self, she tries to while focusing in his hands. “Come here and keep those on,” and it’s no more than a hushed breath because just then, that spot she’s been looking for is right under her fingers.

 

Her head falls back. There’s a tell tale dip on the mattress between her legs and then, the leather drives upward her thighs, tickling the goosebumps on its path as his mouth follows, enhancing the sensation.

 

“Minx,” he growls, but she can feel his smirk against the curve of her hip. “Open up for me, sweetheart.”

 

She gladly complies; her fingers spreading her labia and he descends on her with the impetus of a starved, wild creature. A low rumble bursts from his throat, echoing deep within her and corrupting her usual eloquence into a mix of groans and monosyllables. Her fingers make a mess of his hair while his slide in and out of her, and damn this man for his sinful, perfect touch that ignites her as a nova. His tongue draws relentless circles around her clit; and bless him for knowing the exact pressure she needs to shatter. She can’t keep still; her hips rise and fall in tempo with his strokes, her broken voice confessing through incoherencies that the edge is just—

 

They have walked this line, tested the tether that binds them—that animal attraction that stood firm in between them since the moment their eyes met. They have explored every trail, tasted the ravines of the other’s body until every nerve end felt raw and the sky exposed the dawn for the world to see. They have found rapture, over and over again. And yet, when the completion advances through her, it comes as a shock. It petrifies and awakens her. She’s alive and shuddering as the pleasure reaches every corner, electrifying it all in its wake. His name falls like a prayer from her lips and Ben—he’s Ben, he will always be Ben for her—rides the tidal wave with her, guiding her through a storm of his own making.

 

She becomes limitless with him, there’s no shying away from the fact. Her hands draw him near and she surges forward, meeting his mouth half way and savoring their combined taste. There’s wonder in their touch, a kind of worship. Kneeling over the bed, skin on skin, the kisses stretch and bloom, unhurried yet intense, and the undercurrent of desire permeates the atmosphere. The urge lives, beats; they want more, always more.

 

She takes her time with him, tracing lines between each of his marks—moles and scars alike; and somewhere among biting the shell of his ear and licking her way down to his navel, she realises that resisting him is not only impossible, but also against her own nature.

 

_There’s no sense in dreading the fall if one is already six feet under._

 

Calmer than she thought she would be if this moment ever came, she pauses, her eyes seeking his. “Ben…”

 

His gloves land on some part of the room, an unnecessary barrier at this point. His fingers graze the angles of her face with a tenderness he wasn’t aware he possessed, and when he reverses their places, she sighs to the comfort of his weight on her.

 

He lingers above her and she sees each emotion crossing his narrow, beautiful face as her thumb glides over his lower lip.

 

The words won’t find their way out, not tonight; and though it’s obvious, palpable, they both need the reassurance. “Don’t be afraid, I feel it too.”

 

He’s inside her in a single stroke and their moans mix in the stillness of the room.

 

In the verse of their bodies they come across with that sought freedom, the state of consciousness where all that matters is them and the world turns opaque, dull. Stubborn, capricious as they are, they keep the edge far from the other’s grasp, teasing, taunting. Her nails outline the creases of the muscles of his back, her calves behind his thighs coax a faster pace from him.

 

She feels his teeth digging in her shoulder; she hisses against the shell of his ear as his tongue soothes the imprint when she actually wants to laugh because it's a true expression of himself, decadent and animal, something that only thrills because it's him. His name drops from her mouth in feverish repetition, she’s too far gone to utter anything else and then, he sneaks his arm under her waist and the angle shifts.

 

His thrusts go deeper, the grinding of their pubic bones rides the fine line between pleasure and pain and—

 

"Rey...Rey, fuck!"

 

In the midst of her golden freckles and his alabaster skin, the rhyme of their moves flares like a young star and they forget about it all—the rain, the gun she trained on him, his allegiances—as the crescendo builds; as their hips meet again and again. She splinters and he becomes erratic as the orgasm finds her and then him. Eyes locked, the energy stretches between their moans and shuddery breaths and this is it for her, her _be-all and end-all_.

 

_Ben. Ben. Ben._

 

His fingers trace her cheekbone, and in that moment, she believes he feels the same.

 

Later, when she’s all but lounging over him in a tangle of limbs and the chill of the room is catching up with their bodies, she senses his eyes roaming over his work on her shoulder.

 

“That’s going to leave a mark,” she says, trying her best to sound accusing but knowing she would fail.

 

His arms tighten around her and there’s no mistaking the possessiveness in his voice. “Good.”

 

She can’t muster even a sliver of real annoyance, but she rolls her eyes anyway because there’s no need for a physical reminder. She is his, he is hers and all it took to get there was a mere taste of the forbidden. The haze they find themselves immersed in will dim by morning, but the belonging won’t fade, she thinks, as his fingers draw lazy doodles on her back and his heartbeat lulls her to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Phew! I hadn't written smut in ages. Let me know what you think of it :)


End file.
